Beauty, my dear, is not of face, Is not of form alone: The years will come, and time erase The beauty you have known; Then you will need some other grace To keep your man your own. To hold him here, so proud, so fond, Of beauty now the thrall, You need another, better, bond, When other years befall -- In beauty's springtime look beyond The springtime, after all. As one attracted by a rose, So lovely to the sight, Finds, as its lovely lips unclose, The rose's soul of white, A perfume he did not suppose, An infinite delight -- So I would give the one I wed Beauty, and something more: Lips that are kind as well as red, Love in a golden store -- These are the things, when youth is fled, To bring him to his door. |